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John stared into his mug, the cold dark tea reflecting the emptiness of his eyes.
“He isn’t a fake, Greg. He can’t be. He is too… himself.”
He spilled some tea on the carpet, gesturing with the mug, trying to make his point.
“Just… No way would he be able to pretend for so long. Not when you live with him. The dry jokes, the deductions made out of boredom, or to impress, or to distract. I mean, you know him, Greg.”
“Knew.”
Lestrade’s voice was soft, barely audible. The meaning, however, was very clear. John’s heart sank a bit lower in his mug of chilled desperation.
“Don’t.”
Only silence answered him. Silence and uneven breathing and the gentle cracking noise of bones as a fist was curled and a jaw set tightly.
John emptied the dark liquid in the sink and turned around, appraising Lestrade. The man had a hand in his pocket, the other gripping firmly the mantelpiece. His eyes bore into the empty skull. Lips moving. Whispering.
John couldn’t make out what Lestrade was saying from the distance. Yet, he would have bet that it was just an echo of what was in his own head. “Why, Sherlock? Why?”
No comfort, no answer was to be found. Or would be.
They were alone and together. Fighting Sherlock’s battle.